A/N

Idea for this came from reading the blurb for the upcoming Sector War comic series. And, um, yeah. Also because it's a reminder that there's other cities than Los Angeles in the Terminator universe, and gives me a chance to play around with retro-causality.

The City That Never Sleeps

The members of Lucy Castro's Tech-Com unit had long since learnt not to ask why New York had been called "the city that never sleeps." In part, because they knew that she'd answered that question so often that she would never be in the mood to do so again. Partly because of all the people she'd given the answer to over the years, only a few of them were still alive. And partly because in a sense, New York was still a city that never slept. As much havoc as Judgement Day had wrought on the human race, humans were still primarily a diurnial species, remaining awake in the day. But at night, no-one could sleep in cities like New York. Not when night was the only good time to move around, always keeping one step ahead of the machines. Not when Hunter Killers patrolled the land and air, the tank variant bulldozing down what buildings had survived the bombs, the aerial drone versions ever ready to swoop in on any poor smuck that stuck their head out too long.

New York was still the city that never slept. Thing was, Lucy didn't even know why New York had ever been called that in the first place. Perhaps she'd known the reason once, but that had been a lifetime ago. An entire generation had lived and died in a world where humanity was an endangered species, hunted by the monsters that they'd spawned. Few people remembered what the world was like before the bombs fell. Even fewer of them were kept anywhere near the "frontlines" (though "fronts" didn't really exist in the constant war against Skynet). She knew that she'd been an NYPD cop once, often called to do night shift, to behold humanity's seedy underbelly. Nothing of what she'd seen back then matched the efficient brutality of Skynet, but she knew that as far as homicide went, Skynet might have the no. 1 spot, but humans in general were a close second, at least in the sense of killing each other. In regards to killing machines…

That was difficult. Very difficult. The HK's were slow and bulky, but they could take a pounding. Make one wrong move, and through a barrage of plasma, you'd be very dead, very fast. Of course, that wasn't all. She'd heard the rumours from Los Angeles. And now…

"There."

It was Patch who said the word. Patch, who was looking down the barrel of his sniper rifle using the one good eye that he had remaining. Patch, whose barrel guided her to where she had to look through her field binoculars.

"Fuck."

That was Shears, the third member of her squad. She didn't know why he called himself that. If she wasn't going to take any more questions as to why New York was "the city that never sleeps," then she wasn't going to ask him why he called himself "Shears." Besides, she had too many questions on her mind now, including "what the hell" and "well, shit." Which wasn't a question, but damn, the world had been turned upside down back in '97, and now, thirty years later, it seemed the world wanted to continue shaking them.

There were five of them. Five skeletons walking through the street, each carrying a plasma rifle with one hand that a human would struggle to lift with both. Though she could see that they weren't actual skeletons, but rather exoskeletons, their metal shining in the dark alongside their red glowing eyes. She'd lived and fought long enough to recognise them as Terminators, specifically that of the humanoid kind. But these were different – much different from the T-600s Skynet had used up until now. They were smaller. Sleeker. While lumbering along in a sense, there was a sense of grace to them that Skynet's previous models had lacked. She'd heard rumours that a new type of Terminator had been deployed by Skynet, at least in LA. Now, not only was that rumour apparently true, but its truth was just as valid on the east coast as well as the west.

"So…" Patch began. "Is this where we start picking out a number for them? Or where I start shooting?"

"Neither." Lucy kept her eyes focused down through the binoculars. "We're just here to watch."

"We're always here to watch."

"That's our job."

"Well our job sucks."

That was true, and Lucy didn't have a response to it. She watched as the chrome bucket at the front of the squad (could it be called a squad? These things didn't really operate as units in the same way the Resistance did) approached a bus. One that was on its side, and blocking the road. Her eyes widened as she saw the Terminator put its arm through one of its blasted out windows, and begin to pull the thing aside. In whatever advances Skynet had applied to this new model of Terminator, sacrificing strength hadn't been part of the package.

"Where they going?" Shears whispered.

"Patrol, maybe?"

"Patrol? They've got HK's for patrol. What the fuck do they need chrome domes on patrol for?"

Lucy didn't answer. She suspected one – that Skynet was stepping up its game. HK's were good, but there were plenty of places they couldn't go. Subway stations. Sewers. Tunnels. Places where the Resistance could literally go to ground, strike without warning, and fade back into the shadows before Skynet could react. These things however…she suspected where they could go if needed. The T-600s had already tried that, using rubber skin that never fooled anyone for long, but usually ended up killing plenty of people before they were put down. And if she was still thinking about rumours, the one that she'd heard from New York Command, the one that suggested that Skynet had developed some kind of synthetic skin for its infiltrators that could do anything from sweat to bleed…

She didn't want to think about that.

"Well," Patch said, starting to get up. "It's been a lovely night, but-

He stumbled. Rocks fell down from the office block they'd been using as a lookout. Down on the street, ten red eyes looked up at them. And she didn't get a chance to think about anything else.

"Oh, shit!" Patches exclaimed.

The red eyes kept staring. Dozens of violet plasma beams were sent up to the office.

"Shit!" Lucy exclaimed. "Move!"

She and Patches ran as the plasma bolts sent dust everywhere. Patches reached the staircase first.

"Shears?" She looked back. He was lying on the ground, his flesh burnt and smoking. Dead.

Shit.

She didn't exclaim that. There was no time. All she and Patches could do was run. Do what she'd done more times beyond count. When she'd been a cop, she'd run after perps, armed with weapons that wouldn't do a god damn thing against these machines. Now, running was always away from the enemy. Running down stairs. Patches gave her a look, but no words came out of his mouth. She knew that he knew that Shears wouldn't be joining them.

The two of them made it down to the street. She stopped to regain her breath. Patches looked at her.

"What?"

"You really need to reconsider your night job." He paused. "And day job."

"Patches, you don't know what a job is."

"Yeah, I do – it's what you used to have." He hefted his rifle over his shoulder. "You're going on, what, fifty?"

"I can still fight."

"Yeah, but-"

He didn't get a chance to finish that sentence, as another barrage of plasma fire came their way.

"Move!" she yelled. "Move!"

Both Tech-Com soldiers scrambled to cover behind a burnt out car. One that still had a skeleton inside.

Hey there. How's it going?

Skeleton girl didn't answer. And the three skeletons advancing on them down the street didn't say anything either. They just kept walking and firing. A different squad, but one with the same goal – terminate.

"Fuck." Patches rested his rifle on the car's bonnet. A single bolt of plasma tore through the autumn air, hitting one of the machines. It recoiled from the impact, but after a moment's hesitation, kept on moving. Kept on firing.

"Fuck!" Patches ducked down behind the car as the plasma bolts kept coming. "Lu, if you've got a plan, I-"

"On it, on it!" She took out a map from her pocket – one that was a hand drawn sketch of New York, or at least this part of it. She took out a flashlight and plotted a route. "Here. We cut into the Carroll Gardens station, then follow the line south."

"And how far is that?"

"Two blocks."

Patches didn't say anything. He didn't have to point out that the Terminators were still advancing on them, or that the HKs were almost certainly aware of their position as well. But as the plasma fire kept coming towards them, they didn't have a choice. Lucy drew out a grenade – a fragmentation grenade that would do even less against the Terminators than Patches's sniper rifle had, but might at least slow them down.

"On three," she said, pulling the pin. "One…two…"

Both of them rose to their feet. She threw the grenade.

"Three!"

The grenade was thrown. The plasma fire kept coming their way. Skull girl's head exploded, as did the grenade. Patches screamed, and as she spun around to see him, saw that he'd fallen on the ground, and his right upper chest was smouldering. Burning, with the smell of charred flesh. She saw the trio of Terminators still advancing, unperturbed by the shrapnel that had impacted them. About ten metres away. She went to help him and-

"Go!"

Stopped, as Patches rested the rifle on the ground. The Terminators had stopped firing for a moment – did they want to be efficient and finish off their foes without expending any more rounds? Or worse, did they want them alive?

"Go!" Patches fired, and a plasma bolt hit one of the Terminators. It was flung back against a ruined car – not destroyed, but damaged. The other two walked in on him…

Lucy turned and ran. There was no gunfire. Only a high pitched scream, followed by a wet sound. She didn't look back. Not even as the gunfire sounded up again. As it hit everything around her. As she kept low, darting in and out of the ruined cars to avoid it. Past the bodies of the dead who'd been consumed in the nuclear fire, looking out into the world through empty eye sockets. Could they see what she did? The Terminators, advancing on her. The-

It was advancing on her. She fired her pistol, but it kept coming. Was the guy on something? She yelled at him to stop, to not come any closer. She-

…kept running, rounding the corner. Carroll Gardens was only one block away now. She-

…ran. It chased after her. She reached for her radio, requesting backup. Pleading for backup. Screaming. She-

…kept running, even as the searchlight fell on her. An HK had joined the party, one that intended to end it with maximum prejudice. Heart pounding, lungs burning, she ran. Even as fire and fury rained down from above. Ran as fast as her legs could carry her.

No help was coming. She was all alone.

Ran fast enough so as she dived down the stairs into what was left of the station, she avoided that fate. This time.

Alone.

Lay there in the darkness, breathing heavily. Sweating like a pig. She lay down on the cold concrete, listening to the sound of jets in the air above. The HK couldn't get her. The Terminators could. Would if she stayed here. Just like…

Like what?

Those images.

The monster.

Was she losing it?

Was she losing it? This didn't happen. Men didn't get up after being shot fifteen times. Men didn't keep walking. Men bled.

No. She shook her head and got to her feet. Patches was dead. Shears was dead. The least she could do was honour their memory by not dying. And that included not having flashbacks of…

Of what?

She began to walk. It would be a long way to Prospect Avenue.

What was it?!

As she walked, as she took in the night's events, Lucy Castro reflected that there was at least one reason why New York was the city that never slept.

Why was it after her?

For in a world overrun by nightmares, how could sleep come to anyone?